


Static

by peachsticks



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 20:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachsticks/pseuds/peachsticks
Summary: i wrote this in one go for a beloved friend who asked for content of julian and the mc wherein the mc is having manic episode triggered by their ptsd and the little journey that ensues between the two.





	Static

**Author's Note:**

> the idea is this takes place anywhere from three months to a year after whatever lucio situation is finally resolved, allowing the mc and julian to finally settle together and start a cute life. 
> 
> also particularly here, the mc is nonbinary.

At first, he didn’t take it seriously. He thought the apprentice was embracing life the way he had embraced life with them; he mistook the sparkle in their eye for vivaciousness and maybe a cup or three too much of coffee that morning, and the next morning, and on the third morning that frantic energy tore just enough for him to see the shadows and ghosts swirling underneath.

So when it was clear the apprentice wasn’t actually filling the space with laughter from the heart or hope from the horizon, Julian gently took their hands in his. He didn’t know how exactly to help, but he knew a cry for support when he saw the veil lowered enough. He felt the static noise when their finger interlocked, that low hum of pain sizzling through.

The next time it happened, Doctor Devorak responded. He had spent time in his library digging through any books he could find that might give him clearer direction on how to help more substantially in case of another occurrence. The resources at the palace did not disappoint; but Julian began to lose himself in the science and had forgotten to balance the clinical coldness with the warmth he felt for the apprentice.

They had a falling out. The one size fits all remedy provided within the various texts had squeezed the slippery boy into the rigidity of medicine. It wasn’t until the shop door slammed in his face and the shuttered curtains the next morning smacked him with the most important bit of healing he’d misplaced during his research: healing isn’t linear and following guidelines made for others would not help this person, the person, his person.

It wasn’t easy getting the light back in their cozy shop. The curtains were shut tight and the damned runes were an extra layer of “do not” that took him a few embarrassing pleas for help to dissolve. Was that the same bottle thrown at his head the first time he let himself in and stumbled upon the apprentice? The anger was different, the fear was different.

But it was, and always has been, the same complex person standing before him with that same glare in their eye.

His apology happened over a few cups of tea. A few bad cups of tea. Was that a smile quirking the corner of their mouth? If mocking his inability to brew a proper, enjoyable cup of tea was enough to lift a small bit of the pain then he would gladly gulp down his bitter leaf juice for them.

He knew it would take time. He erred and he had to begin to prove himself to them again, but the sadness darkening their eyes and the sag in their shoulders was a constant reminder of what his ignorance almost cost him.

He made his shitty tea each morning until the apprentice one day decided trying to drink burnt herbs in lukewarm water was no longer the feature breakfast item. They set about to digging out their own blend of leaves, warming the water and steeping the tea in their favourite pot. The shop was easily filled with tickly, spicy scents and Julian was convinced this was the best cup of tea he had ever had.

When the apprentice would return to bed, he would set about clearing dishes and sweeping the storefront. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the meaning of rootwort or fungus but he kept a small notebook of Asra’s “Herbs for Dummies” tips on hand when customers came but the apprentice could not.

No matter what kind of day had been, every night Julian would knock on the apprentice’s bedroom door. Sometimes they would shuffle over and open the door, wordlessly allowing him to join them inside. He would remain quiet, following their lead. Some nights, he would sit in a chair next to their bed and gently describe the fumbles of herb work he had managed during the day. He would hold their hand and simply fill the room with his voice, and once their hand felt warm and limp, he would pull the blankets around his apprentice and sleep in that same chair.

Sometimes there would be no response to his knock. After cracking the door and whispering his entrance, he would stand near the window and sing quietly. Songs he hadn’t sung since he and Portia had been children. Songs sung during the long winters, the dark nights. Just as gently as he came in, he would leave once he heard the deep, even breathing from within the pile of blankets.

One night, the apprentice asked him why. They were holding hands in the bedroom and he had been detailing a trip to the market where he ran into Asra and Faust in the afternoon. It hadn’t been all that exciting, but the way the candlelight was flickering across the apprentice’s face and the warmth of their hand made him want a reason to look at them.

When their hand tightened in his and that one word escaped their lips, his heart wrenched for them. “Why?” The words poured from his mouth and his heart without hesitation.

“Because you gave me a reason to believe again, a reason to hope again.” He cups their cheek with his trembling free hand, holding their gaze.

“Because the strength of your faith in me led me to this.” His eyes glisten, tears spilling over. He paused and the question in the apprentice’s gaze was answered in a hush.

“To loving you.”


End file.
